


Strings

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, takes place before Spider-Man: Far From Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You and Quentin have an arrangement that means no strings attached - but what happens when feelings get caught?
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Strings

Relaxing against the reclining chair, you let out a sigh of both exhaustion and relief; it was nearing eight o'clock in the morning, and you had not slept a wink. For what reason, you were unsure, sometimes, there were just nights where you couldn't sleep, nights where, despite mental stability, your body would not allow you to slip into that lovely resting state. Shivering a little, you grumbled, and put your earphones in, welcoming the sound of the cover of New Abortion by Slipknot, the drums and guitar relaxing you, the heavy vocals a lullaby; you allowed the tension from your shoulders and jaw to release slightly as you got comfortable, flicking the television on and paying hardly any attention to it as news presenters brought even more bad news than usual. 

Oblivious, you didn't realise that your housemate, Quentin, was skulking around the house, first heading to the bathroom to get ready for work, then trudging down the stairs with a heavy sigh and a grumble; he went straight to the kitchen, which was lit up by the main lights, and made himself a cup of coffee before smiling a little as he entered the living room, placing his cup on the mantle. Grumbly, groggy, greetings were shared as he moved you over slightly so that he could sit down before pulling you into his lap and kissing your neck. 

"What are you doing up?" His voice was low and hardly audible, but the vibrations against your skin were hard to ignore as you leaned into him and mumbled. 

Shifting to make yourself comfortable, you were tempted to chuckle at how the leather seat let out a soft hum from the movement. "I couldn't sleep… why are  _ you  _ up? You don't have work until ten." 

Quentin hummed, looking at the television for a second. "You know I don't like sleeping when you're not there." 

You rolled your eyes at the comment. "You're not going soft on me, are you, Beck?" 

He nearly grinned, licking his lips and rubbing his beard against your neck, a slight groan escaping him when you reacted with a soft beg for more of his touch. "Never… we both agreed that we would never catch feelings." 

Your heart broke a little when he reminded you of the agreement; all the physical traits of a relationship, but without the emotional attachment. Sure, you slept in the same bed, and shared the same house, but he wasn't yours, just as you said you weren't his… although, that was far from true; as much as you never wanted to admit it, you were wrapped around Quentin's finger, and had broken the agreement long ago when you realised that you wanted to be his, you wanted to be his and no one else's, because your heart could never belong to someone else's. 

"I know."

He smirked a little, biting and sucking at the side of your neck, being sure to leave his mark right where everyone would be able to see it. "That's a good puppy." 

"You know that I hate that nickname," you grumbled; when you first met, people liked to joke that you followed him around like a lost puppy, and then, when he met your best friend Billy, Billy took it a step further by teasing you and saying that you looked at Quentin like a love sick puppy dog. 

Kissing the mark he made, Quentin growled lowly. "I know you love it secretly, honey." 

You wanted to bark back a comment, but decided against it, as you knew as well as he did that he was right - you loved every and any nickname and pet name he called you, regardless of how silly or cliche or utterly ridiculous it was. "Go fuck yourself, Beck." 

Chuckling, he pulled back, nearly grinning. "Now, why would I do that… when I have you?" 

You had to admit - he had you there; instead of talking back, you got up off of his lap, and shook your head. "You're incorrigible… I'm gonna go get dressed." 

"Can I watch?" He asked jokingly, laughing along with you as you went back up the stairs; when you were gone, Quentin swiped a hand down his face, and cursed himself. He promised he wouldn't fall for you, he promised he would never feel anything more than lust, but you had sunk your claws into his chest and injected your poison into his heart - he knew that no good would come of his feelings for you, but all the same, he wasn't sure how to get rid of them. There was just something about you that had broken through the steel in his heart, and even chipped away at the icy layer beneath to get to the warm, red, flesh that raced when you were near and skipped when you laughed and smiled. He hated it. He wanted it gone. He wanted to be that steely, icy, person you believed him to be, that everyone else thought he was; he wanted to be that cruel, unfeeling, calculated, criminal that he was… before he fell for you. Before you waltzed into his life, all smiles and puppy dog eyes and laughs, snarky comments and easy sarcastic banter, late nights between the sheets and television marathons with takeaway and beer, insomnia that made him worry, and the cutest damn laugh he ever did hear… he was falling for you, hard and fast, and he wanted to stop, he wanted to grab onto the nearest ledge and cling onto it like his life depended on it; but there are no ledges when falling from a skyscraper. 

You came down in black ripped skinny jeans that had been patched by red and purple plaid, a Friday the 13th t-shirt, your best pair of red Vans trainers, and his old university jacket; smiling, you raised a brow when you realised he was staring right at you. "What? Something in my teeth?" 

Quentin shook his head, mustering up a smirk. "No, I just… I was picturing what that outfit would look like on the bedroom floor, later."

"Well…" you mused, toying with the chain attached to your jeans. "If you're lucky, you might find out." 

He cocked a brow and licked his lips like a starving wolf. "Good thing I'm a lucky guy, huh?" 

"I'm meeting Billy," you said, not so subtlety changing the subject. "He texted and asked if I wanted to go for coffee in a bit, he's gonna pick me up, so listen out for the door, please?" 

Nodding, Quentin spoke through clenched teeth, "of course, honey." 

_ Billy.  _ Your best friend in the whole world, the object of Quentin's masked jealousy; Billy Russo, his name was, he was once the CEO of ANVIL, but had since become Jigsaw - a powerful criminal in the underworld of Hell's Kitchen - after a particularly nasty fight with Frank Castle, The Punisher, leaving him with facial scarring and a fair bit of memory loss. Billy remembered you, though, and ever since his incident, had started spending more and more time with you; it drove Quentin mad, it drove him to the edge, to think that Bill the Beaut, Jigsaw, who was once ranked the second most eligible bachelor after Tony Stark, was after your heart. Quentin knew he had no place to vocalise his opinions on Billy, so for once, he kept quiet, knowing that any words about your best friend would put him in hot water, and would be risking everything. 

Within ten minutes, the doorbell rang, forcing Quentin to get up and answering it, allowing Billy inside. 

"Beck," the scarred criminal nodded. 

"Russo," Quentin hissed, narrowing his eyes. "(Y/N)'s still getting ready." 

"Where?" Billy asked, raising his brows. 

With his teeth gritted and grinding, Quentin replied, "bedroom." 

Billy nodded again, and without further hesitation, practically bolted upstairs; knowing he had to get out, Quentin quickly texted to tell you that he was going before walking out through the front door, and leaving you and Billy all alone… yet another thing he hated and loathed with his entire icy, metal, heart. 

Meanwhile, Billy took it upon himself to barge into the bedroom, making himself more than at home as he sat at Quentin's desk and propped his feet up beside the stacks of paper. 

"So," Billy cleared his throat as he watched you sort yourself out. "When did you finally realise you were in love with the cold bastard?" 

You rolled your eyes and bit back a smile. "He ain't that bad, Bill." 

He scoffed. "Oh, really?" 

You nodded. "Really… trust me, Bill, he's… Quentin's different." 

"Different from who?" Your best friend chuckled, pulling out his favourite knife and twirling it in his fingers. "Matt? Danny? Johnny?" 

"Do you really have to bring up  _ all  _ of my exes, right now?" You chuckled, shaking your head fondly. "Actually… don't answer that. Just trust me - Quentin's different. He makes me feel things that I never thought I'd feel again." 

"And you're sure it ain't just the sex?" Billy asked, pouting slightly as he raised a brow. 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you took a seat at the side of the bed. "Very." 

Still twirling his knife, he hummed lowly, focusing on the way the light glittered on the blade. "Well, to put it simply, (y/n)... you're fucked. I mean, I know I've called you a love sick puppy dog before, but… shit, this really is the cherry on top." 

"Help me," you said weakly. "Please, Billy, you're always making shit like this look easy." 

He thought on it for a moments before giving in and sighing heavily. "Fine. I'll help you… but only because you're my best friend and I, for some reason, love you." 

"Thank you!" You barked, rushing over and hugging him tightly. "You're fucking amazing, Russo." 

"I know," he chuckled. "I've got the scars to prove how amazing I am, too." 

You pulled away, smiling and patting his shoulder. "What would I do without you, man?" 

Softly, Billy chuckled, removing his feet from the desk and allowing them to fall to the floor with a slightly muffled thud. “Perish, probably.” 

You wanted to roll your eyes at the comment, but thought better of it as you stood up and grabbed a black beanie from off of the vanity. “Anyways, we going out for coffee, or what?” 

“Now, hold on,” he mused, running a hand over where his head had been shaved, the fuzzy feel of his hair growing back prickling the palms and making his skin tickle. “We still haven’t figured out what we’re going to do about your little Beck situation.” 

Putting the beanie back down, you frowned, and took a seat on the floor, your back against the wardrobe. “Fuck’s sake… alright, what’s the plan, then?” 

Billy fell silent for a moment, scratching at the bug bite on the back of his neck to rip the small scab off. “I’ve got no fucking clue… how does it even work between you two, anyways? I mean, are you friends with benefits, or what?” 

You shrugged, massaging a single temple with your fingers. “Kinda? I guess? I mean, in a way… we have this agreement of basically, we’re in a relationship, just… without the emotional shit.” 

“That makes no fucking sense,” he quipped. “But, then again, it’s you and Quentin - what did I expect?” 

You tossed a twenty pence coin you had found on the floor at your friend. “Quiet, thot!” 

“I’m a himbo!” He argued playfully. 

“You wish you were a himbo!” You shot back. 

“In all seriousness, though,” Billy cleared his throat, rubbing the spot on his back that was stinging a little. “It’s a non-relationship-relationship, right?” 

You nodded. “Yeah, if that’s what you wanna call it.” 

“Tell how you feel, then,” Billy advised with a casual shrug. “I mean, the worst that happens is he walks away, right? And, I know you love him, but if he walks away because of how you feel, then he’s just a fucking idiot.” 

\---

At work, Quentin had been more distracted than ever, and his boss had noticed, and had sent Pepper Potts down to talk to him; she was a lot better at talking to people and giving advice than the boss was, although everyone had to admit, that the boss was still kind and fair and did his best. 

“Beck?” Pepper cleared her throat as she knocked on the door, peering round. “Can we talk?” 

Tossing his tools on the worktop, Quentin shrugged. “What’s this about?” 

“Nothing bad,” she reassured honestly. “I just… we’ve noticed you’re not yourself today - and we’re all quite worried.” 

He scowled a little and leaned against the sawdust covered worktop, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m fine. I just have a lot to think about.” 

She frowned, tilting her head and pulling up one of the metal stools to sit on, brushing off the light brown, almost yellow, dust. “Talk to me, Beck, please? If only for my own sanity.” 

Quentin considered it, he had always considered Pepper an easy person to talk to - everyone did - as while she was kind and reassuring, she also refused to take any lies or flack; he ran a hand through his hair, and shrugged. “It’s… my housemate.” 

“Go on,” Pepper pressed gently. 

Wanting to bite his tongue, Quentin looked away. “We have this… arrangement. Y’know, everything in a relationship but without the emotional strings and without the whole exclusive thing, but… fuck, I’ve messed up, big time.” 

“What did you do?” She asked softly. 

“I caught feelings,” he snarled. “It’s like I’ve been pushed off of a skyscraper and there’s no ledges to cling onto and I’m just… falling. But I never reach the ground, like that fucking cartoon with the coyote and the roadrunner.” 

Chuckling softly, Pepper nodded. “You’re in love, Beck.” 

Quentin scowled again, looking like a young Scrooge in December, full of bitterness and hate, a single sarcastic word leaving his gritted teeth: “great.” 

“Are you gonna tell your housemate how you feel?” She asked, covering her face with her hands as she let out a rather loud sneeze. “Sorry, I have an awful cold and-” 

“Don’t apologise,” Quentin said, quietly, before speaking up, allowing the dial on his volume button to go up. “Over the holidays, my housemate had the worst cold - we couldn’t leave the house, we were practically in quarantine because none of our friends wanted to get sick. A friend of ours, Billy, brought food and stuff over because we couldn’t go out. He offered to help me look after my housemate, but… no. If anyone was gonna look after my housemate, it was gonna be me.” 

Pepper sat there with a small smile, thinking about how her own partner often did the same when she was sick, and how she did the same for her partner in the same circumstances. “I’m not a relationship expert, Quentin, but I know what love looks like - and from what I see, you’re head over heels for your housemate.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I can’t be.” 

She quirked a brow. “And why’s that?” 

Running his thumb along his bottom lip and pulling off the first thin layer of skin, Quentin clicked his tongue. “Because it’s not what me and my housemate arranged, it’s not what we agreed to.” 

Pepper frowned again, sighing as she shook her head. “Listen, go home. Tell your housemate how you feel. Okay?” 

He was about to open his mouth and reply, but she shot him a glance that had him falling silent and going to change out of his overalls in the changing rooms; he grabbed his bag, but not before stuffing his dusty and dirty overalls into it, and slung it over his shoulder before walking out of the building. He couldn’t tell you how he felt - it was against everything you had agreed to. He could never allow the day to come where he would admit to you how he felt; he didn’t want to open up and admit how he felt, he didn’t want to be weak, he didn’t want to be anything except that cold, cruel, calculating person that he was supposed to be. It was bad enough that you had already sank your claws in and ripped a hole in the steel armour of his heart and began to thaw through the second icy layer; he couldn't stand it. 

When he drew near to the front door, he watched you and Billy exchange goodbyes at the door before your best friend wandered down the street, giving Quentin time to trudge along the asphalt until reaching the conservatory. He dumped his bag as if it had been weighing him down the entire time, and walked into the living room. 

"You're home early," you commented, taking a seat beside him and resting your legs on his. "Don't tell me - everyone else was too incompetent so you walked out?" 

Quentin shook his head. "I don't wanna talk about it." 

You nodded in understanding, retracting your legs from his and deciding to cuddle up to him, but he pushed you away. "What's wrong? Did I do something?" 

He clenched his jaw a little, shaking his head again. "No, puppy, you did nothing wrong." 

You frowned, furrowing your brows and looking every bit a love sick puppy dog. "Then why did you push me away?"

Letting out a seething breath, Quentin tensed up. "I'm just tired." 

You tilted your head to the side a little. "Well… why don't you go upstairs and have a bit of a sleep, and in the meantime, I'll make us something to eat." 

He managed to muster up a mask, a simple smile. "Okay." 

You frowned as you watched Quentin trudge up the stairs, walking with a burden on his shoulders that he refused to tell you about, it made you worry and fret that you had done something so wrong and so awful that he was going to leave; you felt your heart break a little like clouds making way for the sun, and sink like a broken ship. All you wanted was to make Quentin happy, all you wanted was to see his smile and hear his laugh and revel in the way he held you and bask in the kisses and the sweet moments as well as the sinful ones that came with nights tangled in sheets. You wanted everything about Quentin - from how he made you feel and how he touched you, as well as how he was temperamental and dominant, and how he always thought he was the smartest person in the room. You wanted the bad as much as the good. You didn't love him despite his flaws - you loved him for them, because without them, he wouldn't be your Quentin, he wouldn't be the person you fell in love with. You didn't want to change him, just as you never wanted him to be someone he wasn't; you wanted the arrogance, the envy, the ice and the cold, the disregard for others as if everyone was temporary… but he never treated you like you were temporary. 

You thought back to how he looked after you when you were sick; how he was so gentle and attentive, bringing you leek soup, patting your back when you coughed, supplying you with tissues and handkerchiefs, refusing to leave your side until you were better. 

You started thinking about all the times he had hinted that he didn't think he was deserving of love; but that wasn't true, not to you. Love didn't pick and choose who was deserving and who wasn't, love didn't care about the past or the present or the future, love didn't care about anything. It made people cry, and laugh, and it broke people, it made people make stupid mistakes; it had no reason, and it refused to let people give up. Love was… love was just about as complicated as Quentin. 

Shaking your head and running a hand through your hair, you sighed, trying to release the tension that had built up in your shoulders and jaw, but seemingly to no avail, as all you could think about was Quentin. How angry and distant and cold he seemed… how you thought it was something you had done to make him feel that way; it took a few precious moments, but you managed to put him out of your mind enough go head into the kitchen. You decided on making his favourite for dinner - vegetable curry, with garlic bread on the side and egg fried rice. You also decided that you would make a rum fruitcake for pudding, too, just to see if it would help make him feel a bit better; you checked every cupboard for the ingredients, and found that you had everything and more, and after washing your hands and rolling up your sleeves, you got to work - but not before turning on the bluetooth speaker and quietly playing your favourite Elton John songs. 

\--- 

Quentin didn't get any sleep, staying up to think about you; he could not get you out of his mind for his life, he had even come to the decision that it was best to tell you, to let you know that you had broken through his layers of ice and steel to get to the soft, red, flesh that skipped when you grinned and roared when you laughed and sank when you cried and stung when you weren't well; he knew that he didn't deserve you - after all, you could make a pair of ratty old pyjamas look good, you were kind, you were compassionate and empathetic without any ulterior motive, you were funny and you were skilled and talented and you were smart, not as smart as him, but still, you were everything that he wanted and more… but he didn't think that he deserved it. He didn't think he deserved you. It was the one thing in life that Quentin didn't think he deserved. All the old love songs were wrong, he thought, love was cruel and unkind, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, it was misery and bitterness and hailstorms on a Winter day. He hated it. Like Scrooge with Christmas, Quentin was with love. He hated it. Huffing and scowling, he drug himself out of bed, and shook off the thoughts that had been drowning his brilliant mind; he trudged down to the kitchen, acutely aware of the sound of ‘Your Song’ by Elton John, and forced himself to fight back the smile that dared to try and creep up on his lips as he cleared his throat and leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest as he watched you for a moment - you were completely in your own little bubble, your back to him as you tapped pots and pans with the beat and hummed softly to yourself. 

It wasn’t until you turned around to grab something that you even registered Quentin’s presence, yelping a little and clutching your chest as you laughed softly with great surprise, making him grin and roll his eyes. 

“Honey, I’m home.” He said jokingly, tilting his head to the side slightly so that the light caught his cyan eyes beautifully, illuminating the glittering amongst the deep cyan. He reached a hand up, and scratched his jaw as if he was thinking about something of great importance that could never be put into words. 

You smiled back, looking absolutely stunning to him, the most wonderful person in and about the world. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Beck.” 

Quentin smirked, shaking his head. “Do you want some help?” 

You shook your head, no, and cleared your throat before you could even consider getting lost in his beautiful eyes, how sweet they could be in moments of tenderness and - no. You looked away, grabbing what you needed from the cupboard. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Fine,” he lied, swallowing thickly. “We need to talk.” 

With your back once again turned to him, you raised a brow, looking at your task at hand. “What about?” 

“Us,” Quentin stated calmly, without any emotion, just as the song switched to ‘I Want Love’. “I, uh, listen, honey, I know we’ve got a good thing here and everything, but… we need to stop.” 

Whipping around to face him, you furrowed your brows. “What do you mean?” 

The hammering in his chest grew as he listened to the lyrics of the song, resonating a bit too deeply. “I mean… fuck me, I’m in love with you.” 

Your jaw fell slack, mouth agape as you were unsure if he was being sarcastic, or if he was dead serious, you cleared your throat again. “Y-you mean that?” 

Quentin nodded. “Of course I mean it. I want love,  _ your _ love, (y/n) - I want you. I want… I want us, for fuck’s sake.” 

You closed your mouth, biting back a smile as you stuttered and stumbled to reply, “I want you, us, too, I mean… I mean… I love you, too, but I didn’t want to tell you because-” 

“Of the arrangement,” he finished. “I know. But, what do you say that we say fuck it? Get rid of it. Have us, with the strings.” 

“I’d love that,” you whispered with a smile. “I want the strings.” 


End file.
